The Dummy's Finale
by Insomniac Connor
Summary: Why did Slappy come back after all these years? Was he just a sadist wanting a fix of pain and suffering? And who was that guy, Ray, with the hypnotic voice that Slappy hated? (Human! Slappy/Amy)
1. In Which Amy Kramer Encounter a Ghost

The Dummy's Finale

1

In Which Amy Kramer Encounters A Ghost

A long, cool breeze rushed through fifteen-year-old Amy Kramer's hair, pushing it off her shoulders and making it swim beyond her shoulders.

"Are you sure about this?" asked a voice and her head whipped to the side.

Next to the sidewalk stretched a huge forest that kids liked to play around.

She squinted passed the leaves and made out the figures of two middle schoolers, one with sandy hair and the other with bright blue curls.

"Dude, come on," whined another voice as the blue-haired boy shook something in his hand.

A matchbox, Amy realized slowly, stepping closer and thanking that it had rained the night before so the boys couldn't hear her. At their sneakered feet lay a crumpled heap, breathing slowly but otherwise unmoving.

Could it have been an _animal_?

At the thought, she picked up her pace to a hurried jog, her softball bag hitting her hip with each step. Blood pounded in her ears as she struggled to find her voice.

"I dunno. There's a reason this thing's here. Maybe it's evidence to a murder," the blond muttered, looking uncertainly at his friend.

The blue-haired boy snorted with laughter. "Don't be a wuss," he said firmly, giving his friend a light shove.

She froze when she spotted the black-clad body, the wavy brown hair.

Could it…?

"Hey!" she called, stumbling as her sneaker caught on a tree root. Her bat clattered out of her hand noisily and she scrambled for purchase.

The boys stared at her, wide-eyed and then they took off, leaving the matches behind.

Mud squished loudly beneath her feet as she shook her head at them with a heavy sigh. "Stupid kids. Let's see who this little guy is." She crouched down, gently rolling over the figure, and froze.

His face was chipped and cracked, almost unrecognizable if not for the freckles across where his nose would've been and the waves of auburn hair.

Her stomach twisted painfully as she stared at Slappy's bruised form.

He looked horrible, his suit cut into pieces, his paint peeling and chipped.

"Don't…" His voice was weak and raspy as he jolted up jerkily, like his joints no longer worked properly, waving his arm out lamely.

"Don't," he breathed again, his good eye cracked open. "Don't…touch me."

His chest was heaving, beads of water clinging to his jaw and sunken cheeks as recognition lit up his porcelain face. And then his visible eye rolled back and he fell forward, collapsing to the ground in a motionless heap again.

Amy stared vacantly at his back.

How the hell did Slappy find his way back to her town?

* * *

Sara was working on her latest masterpiece when Amy came in, cradling the unconscious living doll in her arms gently.

After wrestling with her maternal instincts and better judgment, her instincts won and Amy proceeded to take him home.

"Is that you?" Sara's head peeked out of her studio room, a paintbrush tucked behind her ear.

Her eyes twinkled and Amy shrugged off her muddy softball bag into her sports bin. Toeing off her boots, she muttered something like a greeting and rested Slappy on the counter. His eyelids fluttered as he slept soundly.

"Amy, how was—what is _he_ doing back here?" Sara's voice reached a feverish pitch, making Amy's head pound with an impending migraine.

"Slappy," was all she said as she rummaged about in the drawer to find a screwdriver and scissors.

"I _know_ that," Sara hissed, wielding her palette knife like a sword against a mighty opponent. " _Why_ is he _here_?" she demanded loudly.

Amy quietly closed the drawer. "I have a migraine, try to keep it down," she said.

" _Amy!_ " Sara came stomping in but didn't move passed the fridge.

"I said _shut it_. He needs help." Amy fixed her older sister with a glare.

"Couldn't he have gotten help at the bottom of a ditch? Preferably in Alaska," Sara grumbled, scowling at Amy.

The younger of the two rolled her eyes at the older's antics and turned away. "Grow up," Amy muttered as the garage door creaked open.

"Let's see what Mummy and Daddy have to say!" spat Sara as she spun on her heel and stalked away.

Amy shook her head sadly at her sister's attempt at coming off as posh and sophisticated, even going so far as adopting an English lilt.

Mr. Kramer stepped in, his brow furrowed at his older daughter's incoherent babblings until his eyes landed on the dummy lying on the table. "Amy," he choked out, his voice strained, "What's this?"

Jed peered around his father's arm and grinned. "Dude, it's Slappy!" he yelled, ready to charge forward, but Mrs. Kramer grabbed the back of his football uniform and yanked him back.

Scowling, Jed swung his arms and pulled against his mother's grip.

"He needs help," Amy stated calmly as she lifted him up, brushing off a streak of flaky mud from his round cheek.

"Mental, you are," Sara muttered darkly.

"Amy, sweetie, don't you remember last time he was here?" Mrs. Kramer's voice could have been called soothing but her eyes held a bit of panic and horror.

"I do. Two middle schoolers were going to burn him so I decided to take him back here," Amy answered, wrapping Slappy up into her chest. His chin dug into her collarbone, little hands resting against her hips.

"Amy—"

"For once, _please_ , just leave be," she pleaded as she scooped up her things and squeezed past her family.

"This is going to bring trouble, Amy," Sara told her fiercely but her eyes didn't even stray to the ventriloquist dummy in her arms; they stayed on Amy's the entire time.

"Doesn't matter. Trouble is my middle name. Also, that accent is offensive and _sucks,_ " Amy replied.


	2. In Which Amy Kramer Stikes A Deal

The Dummy's Finale

2

In Which Amy Kramer Strikes A Deal

Her backpack forgotten for the moment, Amy plopped down on her bed.

Slappy was still asleep, almost comatose, and she felt a little chill run down her spine. Settling him down gently, she stared at his face.

Same rounded cheeks, rosy; meticulously neat brown curls; same black suit and red tie. Same old Slappy.

Sighing, she headed to her closet and peeled off her sweaty t-shirt. She knew it should've bothered her to have the comatose body of the doll that made her twelve-year-old life a living hell in her room while she changed but, seeing as it seemed like he wasn't going to wake up any time soon, it didn't.

The window was open, letting in the cool summery breeze and it ran across her flushed, hot skin. _Shower_ , she decided, unbuttoning her jeans and sliding the grass stained denim down her legs.

She winced as it rubbed against her bruises and scratches from too many slides.

The hair on the back of Amy's neck unexpectedly stood on end as her jeans puddle around her ankles.

 _Grow up,_ she told herself fiercely; rolling her socks down off her toes, _he's asleep._

Regardless, to be on the safe side, she gathered some clean clothes and stripped out of her bra and panties in the bathroom. While the water warmed, she tended to her bruised legs and combed her ratty hair. The air was hot and muggy, leaving her skin sticky.

 _How did you get Slappy back into your life, Amy?_ she asked her tired reflection, taking notice of the zit on her jaw and the scratch along her left temple.

Shaking her head dimly, she slid into the spray of hot water and washed herself raw, taking care to get under her nails and between her toes.

Amy tilted her head up into the hot spray, letting rivulets run down her lids and cheeks, pelt her hair and soak it. As she did so, she thought about what had occurred when she tried to tell her parents—that had been so stupid, even if she was only twelve—about Slappy.

 _Amy, Amy, your father and I want you to see Dr. Palmer. You aren't crazy, sweetie, but we can tell you aren't right. We just want what's best for you._

Her breath came out in angry pants as she slapped her palms flat against the tiles, droplets stinging her eyes.

Once the water ran cool, she wrung out her hair and stepped out. The mirror was foggy, and she wiped it clear to dab a bit of neosporin on the scratch on her temple.

Once she dressed in a pair of shorts and a t-shirt, she headed back out, pulling her hair out of the collar. When she stepped into her room, she froze.

Slappy was wide-awake, staring straight at her with shiny blue eyes the color of the sky on a hot summer day.

"Hi," she said awkwardly, wiping her hands on the bottom of her shirt.

His eyes narrowed. "Is that any way to greet your master, slave?" he demanded.

Amy relaxed, fear flowing out of her. Three years ago, she would've bawled like a newborn babe and pleaded with the dummy; now, however, she didn't have the slightest inkling of fear towards him.

"Good to see you too, Slappy," she snorted.

He seemed puzzled for a split second, eyebrows drawn in confusion as he glanced around, taking in the new posters on her walls and the bursting bookcase beside the closet.

"You grew a set of tits," he announced, making Amy flare her nostrils.

"You're an asshole," she responded.

"Why am I here?" he asked, rising shakily to his feet. He swayed and looked ready to crumple into a pile.

"I have a deal for you," she told him, leaning over to grab the screwdriver and scissors off her desk. When she turned back around, his eyes quickly lifted to her face. Whether wood or flesh, men were still men.

"I want you to be my slave, but only if I fix you."

"And if I don't?" He cocked a thick, dark brow at her.

Her smile grew. "You don't have much of a choice."

She expected a big tantrum from him, throwing things, hurling insults, the whole shebang, but what she didn't expect was a quiet "Okay."

"Now come here so I can get those clothes off."

His jaw jutted, he crawled over slowly, exasperatedly sighing. Placing the blades firmly against his suit, she slowly cut off the wet, tattered fabric, save for his little shorts covering his nudity. "I'll be back soon. I just need some things to fix your finish up and get the mold off," she said and rose, heading out the door.

As an afterthought, knowing him all too well, she added, "Be good."

He sneered but didn't reply as the door closed behind her.


	3. In Which Amy Kramer Is Startled

The Dummy's Finale

3

In Which Amy Kramer Is Startled

While Amy was downstairs, Mrs. Kramer was speaking frantically with Mr. Kramer, her voice feverish and muffled from behind the thick, oak door of the den. Sighing tiredly, she pulled out some of her sewing supplies and turned to walk away.

Sara was slouched at the counter, red-eyed and scowling, her hair sticking to her wet face. "It's your fault," she hissed and then continued to bawl like a baby into her arms.

Amy rolled her eyes and backtracked to the stairs. Down the long hallway that led to the garage, she could hear her parents arguing about what to do. The words "crazy" and "devil magic" were thrown around quite a lot.

She stomped upstairs childishly and the voices lowered to a murmur. "They think _I'm_ crazy? Try that bitch, always going on and on about her stupid _masterpieces_ ," she muttered angrily, yanking open the door to her bedroom.

"Talking to yourself is a sign of insanity," Slappy chimed from his spot on her pillow, his eyes staring up at the ceiling. "I see you've noticed the dream catchers."

The first year after Slappy vanished, she'd been plagued by horrible nightmares and purchased dozens of dream catchers; after that, the nightmares stopped.

"I see you're still as whiny as you were two years ago," he said.

Amy scowled and slammed down the fabric onto her desk. "I see you're as rude as you were," she snapped.

"And _I_ see you're as flat-chested as before," he answered, sitting up calmly. Hadn't he told her she'd grown before she headed downstairs, though?

She flushed bright red and ducked her head down. "Asshole," she muttered, turning her head away from him to pick up the scissors.

"Ouch. I'm wounded," he told her.

"Are you sure puppets have feelings? Or can be hurt?" she asked flatly.

His eyes narrowed. "As a matter of fact, they _do_ , slave."

She opened the scissors, snapped them shut a few times menacingly in the direction of his groin, and watched him scrabble back a bit. "It's _Amy,_ termite brain," she replied.

"Amy?" Mrs. Kramer knocked on the door three times before she opened the door, Sara trailing behind with a smug expression. Mr. Kramer was nowhere to be found.

Amy froze, looking between a red-faced Slappy and her mother's frozen expression of horror. "Yeah," she managed to choke out, "what?"

Slappy swung his fists fiercely and Sara yelped loudly, backing up and tripping over her own feet. "See? _She_ knows to be scared of me, slave." The ventriloquist grinned, teeth flashing in a dangerous manner.

Any and all the color washed out of Mrs. Kramer's face. Her eyes went wide, round like saucers, her dark irises clashing against the whites of her eyes. "Sweet Mary help us," she whispered.

"No Mary, just _me_ ," he laughed in her face and she gripped the edge of the door with a white-knuckled grip.

She swayed sharply, wide-eyed.

"Slappy, stop it," Amy said, frowning down at him as she flopped down, twirling the scissors. When she slowly crossed her legs, her mother looked ready to faint into a heap.

"Amy," she grunted through her teeth, terrified and pale-faced.

"Yes?"

"We've called the police," came Sara's far-away voice as her head peered around the edge of the doorframe. She was still wide-eyed, cheeks flushed from crying.

Amy squinted, twirling the scissors on her fingers before seizing Slappy by the arm and pulling him into her lap.

The scissors swung and swung around and around, gleaming. Slappy struggled mightily, frantically.

"Amy," said her mother warningly, eyeballing her daughter.

The green-eyed girl simply continued to swing the sharp blades, if not even faster, now a continuous strip of silver against the worn, bleached fabric of her shirt.

Slappy threw his hand up and knocked her wrist away, the tip of the blade cutting into her chin.

"Hey, you dick," she yelled as a single bead welded up inside the cut and rolled down her jaw, hitting Slappy's cheek.

There was a great noise, like something was ripping, and Amy screamed shrilly, knocked back into the wall, head cracking hard enough to make her vision go fuzzy. The air reeked of sour, bitter smoke, house fire smoke, burning something fiercely.

She could hear something crackling, lightning, radio static loud, making her head pound as she blinked hard to see passed the green smoke.

Her mother was lying on the floor, clutching her head as she stared in surprise.

Sara was crouched down behind the wall outside, white fingers trembling against the woodwork.

Amy pulled herself up and felt the back of her head for damage; thankfully, her search turned up no bumps or scratches. Her eyes scanned the room as Mrs. Kramer began to scream, loudly, hitting a sharp, ear-splitting crescendo before bubbling back down. "Oh my god! What _happened_?"

The softball player couldn't quite believe it herself.

Lying facedown on the floor, sprawled out with his arms and legs every which direction, was a guy about her age. He was lean, almost skinny, and gangly too with knobby knees and spidery fingers. His short, unkempt brown hair was slightly singed, sticking up everywhere and ended on his nape just above a small black mark, which looked like Arabic.

At first, she thought he was dead. He wasn't breathing, not an inch of movement. And then he rolled onto his back, eyes shooting open; they were blue, like the Indiana sky before a storm rolled in.

He was handsome, in a Richard Ramirez sort of way. His face was all sharp, frighteningly gaunt cheekbones and long, cinnamon eyelashes; his lips were thin and there was a notch in his top one. His eyes were deep-set, cast in shadow, and set below thick, dark brows. A scattering of freckles interrupted perfectly pale rose skin at the apples of his cheeks and the bridge of his nose.

"What?" he asked eventually and everyone jumped at the sound of his voice: rough, short with an accented lilt.

For a minute, Amy couldn't place those cold eyes or the voice to his face.

Sara screamed.

The angry look in his blue eyes clicked something into place in Amy's mind. Her stomach rolled.

"Slappy?" she whispered.

His lip curled. "Who else, slave?"


	4. In Which Amy Kramer Panics

The Dummy's Finale

4

In Which Amy Kramer Panics

Slappy sat calmly at the head of the table, dressed in a pair of Jed's old jeans and a sweatshirt from Mr. Kramer, eight sizes too large. The ends of his hair were singed and still smoked slightly.

"So let me get this straight," Amy said, rubbing her eyes as she glared at him, "you turn human when you come in contact with human blood. It takes a year to wear off."

"If that's true," Jed blurted, leaning over the table, teetering dangerously on the edge of the chair, "Why hasn't this ever happened before?"

Slappy squinted at the boy sharply, his eyes burning. "It's simple."

He folded his long, graceful hands. "It never has," he stated, calm as a still lake, his face completely blank. His voice never wavered, not once.

"For all these years, it was a wives' tale, something to tell us when we were younger, fascinating those eager enough to listen. Kind of like an urban legend, if you will," he said, smiling faintly.

"An urban legend," Jed repeated dimly, leaning back. The table rattled when he set his hands blindly onto the tabletop.

Slappy nodded as though it should've been the most obvious thing on earth.

Amy twisted her fingers, digging her nails into her skin. The pain pushed everything into clarity so she could think. "And my blood got on you and now you're… _this_ ," she said.

Absently, she waved her hand at him, at the human skin on his frame, his human eyes staring out at them, the silky hair covering his head.

"Although I may look human, I don't breathe. I don't have a heartbeat or blood in my veins. Outside, I look human. Inside, I am a puppet." He waved his arm out and she stared at the light hair dusting his forearm, at the veins protruding from his skin.

Tentative, she reached out and her fingers grazed the soft surface, milky and smooth aside from his millions of freckles. She could feel the map of his veins but no heat emitted from them, no thumping of blood.

Now that she looked more closely, his shoulders never rose. He blinked a few times.

"Why are you here?" Mrs. Kramer asked, wiping down the counter with a wet rag. She never lifted her eyes off the granite countertop, her hands quivering just as badly as her lips, and she kept twitching, her jaw hitting her chest over and over.

Mr. Kramer was at work so it was just her, Sara (who refused to join them), Amy and Jed.

Untouched sat the plates, cold scrambled eggs, turkey bacon, and bagels.

Amy was too wound up to eat and Slappy was inspecting every inch of his meal, picking apart the eggs, sniffing the bagel, pulling strings of fat and inspecting them off the bacon.

"Are you going to eat?" Jeb waved a heavy fork at Slappy and Amy's full plates, eyeballing them eagerly.

He was working his way through his hot-sauce splashed eggs, bits of butter gleaming in flecks around his mouth, one hand holding two pieces of bacon between his fingers. He always was a messy eater.

"'Cause if you're not, I want it." Another forkful of eggs dropped into his open maw, chewing eagerly for more.

Amy nudged her plate with her elbow and he scraped her remains onto his plate.

He licked his lips sloppily.

"Do all humans eat like that?" Slappy asked, waving his fork at Jed, who scraped a red-and-yellow mess of eggs into his mouth, actually lifting to the plate up to his open mouth. Flecks of hot sauce littered around his lips; a speck of yolk stood out against the red hair of his eyebrow.

"No, he's just a pig without manners," Amy said, shrugging a shoulder.

"Why are you here?" Mrs. Kramer repeated, a tic in the corner of her mouth at being ignored so easily.

The puppet-turned-man looked up. "I don't know," he admitted and all eyes swung to Amy, who was picking pieces of egg off her placemat.

As if feeling the eyes, she looked up. "I…I don't know either," she argued, her lips quivering.

She felt ready to explode.

Why _had_ she brought him back? After everything he'd done to them when she was twelve—she should've left him for dead, but she couldn't. It was as though someone else was controlling her, compelling her to pick him up and care for him.

"Why would you bring him back?" Mrs. Kramer demanded, slapping down the wet washcloth onto the counter. As skittish as she was, she was even worse when she was angry.

"He nearly tore us apart! He ruined Sara's beautiful masterpieces and got Jed in trouble," she raved, her eyes narrow.

 _Of course_ her mother would be angry about Sara's "masterpieces" and, since Jed was the baby of them, be super protective over him but where did Amy fit in? Was she not important enough to be acknowledged as well?

Amy struggled to breathe, twisting her napkin fiercely between her fingers. It was like all thoughts flew from her brain, leaving only a huge panic. She clenched her jaw.

" _Answer_ her, stupid! I thought Dr. Palmer fixed you," came Sara's annoying lilt from beyond the living room.

Amy's lip ached as she bit it hard, tasting sharp, hot blood.

Something cool and smooth touched her chin, tilting her head up. Slappy's familiar aquamarine eyes stared back at her, his face carefully smooth but a hint of sympathy in his gaze.

"Don't you touch her," shrieked Mrs. Kramer.

"I'm simply calming her. In case you hadn't noticed, she's on the verge of hysteria."

Amy glanced at his thin lips, her stare lingering and then she pushed away from the table, her chair screeching.

The tableware rattled, Jed's glass teetering back and forth, milk spilling over the edge of the rim. He stared at her, obviously confused. Sara was still shrieking.

Mrs. Kramer was yelling at Amy now, rounding the corner of the counter, and her bony fingers dug into Amy's arm, squeezing passed the muscle and hitting the bone.

Slappy rushed to his feet and snapped his fingers, once, and the sound bounced, echoing as though they were in a canyon.

Time crawled to a slow standstill for a split second then Mrs. Kramer stumbled away, her eyes glassy, expression blank.

Sara had fallen quiet.

Jed dropped his fork onto his plate and the sound jarred Amy's ringing ears as Slappy sat back, a triumphant look dominating his face.

Her teeth chattered as she escaped to her room, black hair swinging behind her. Her hands shook as she struggled with the doorknob, the cool metal shocking her burning skin. She managed to pull it open, wedging it with her foot and then her knees gave out; she hit the floor hard, scarcely missing her open closet door.

In the back of her mind, she knew Slappy had caused that.

But, oddly, it didn't frighten her; if anything, it _calmed_ her.


	5. In Which Amy Kramer Cries

The Dummy's Finale

5

In Which Amy Kramer Cries

Her room was getting tinier and tinier. Sweat ran down her back and stomach in rivulets, too hot and sticky, making her shorts far too tight and her t-shirt skintight. Her hair hung limp and thick, sticking to her neck and her cheeks and her jaw, making her face flush red.

Outside, down the hall, she could hear Sara shrieking at whoever would listen, probably Mrs. Kramer or Mr. Kramer.

Amy bit her lip hard and tried to put her head between her legs, hyperventilating. Sweat ran down her face, down her temples, dampening the collar of her shirt.

"He's a menace!" Sara screamed and her voice cracked on the last note. She stomped fiercely and the whole house shook, windowpanes rattling, wood against glass.

Amy let her mouth drop open and quick, short breaths hissed in and out of her mouth; it wasn't helping any. Tears prickled her eyes, hot and stinging.

Panic rose in her, a huge, gushing wave that overwhelmed her, knocked her flat on her back. Wave after wave rolled into her, one right after the other, too close to brace against.

Tucking her knees against her chin, she rolled to her side and squeezed herself into a ball.

Tears soaked her pillow as she bit the case, trying hard not to make a sound.

Downstairs, Sara was still throwing a hissy fit. Dishes and cups shattered. _Who's the one who needs therapy?_ Amy wondered as her bedroom door creaked open slowly. Her breathing was ragged still.

"Slave?" It was Slappy, creeping into her room silent as a mouse.

Amy lifted her head, blinking away her tears, trying to see him. All she could see, however, was a huge pale blob with a shock of auburn.

"Breath," he said to her, the space beside her on her mattress sinking down with his weight.

The bedsprings squeaked loudly as he sank down.

His hand was on her side, his thumb rubbing circles gently. His breath ghosted across her ear, her jaw, and a few droplets of spittle hit her cheek.

"I'm okay," she lied through chattering teeth, hoping she didn't chomp her tongue in two halves.

His hand drifted up to her ribcage, down to her thigh, and back again, over and over.

It was like the rocking of a crib, lulling her into a calm serenity, making her tears dry in flaky patches on her red cheeks and her breathing slow down; her muscles twitched and her skin quivered every few minutes, shaky energy rolling through her still.

She lifted her head briefly, managed to focus her eyes on him, and murmured, "Thanks."

With that, she laid her head back down onto the wet pillowcase and closed her eyes, listening to the sounds outside instead of Sara's furious complaining.

There were birds singing quietly and sprinklers hitting the sides of houses and cars roaring down the street. Geese hacked overhead, dogs barked at each other, and kids screamed at each other with laughter and yelled sports commands and profanities.

Over all of it, there was the sound of Slappy's hand shuffling against the fabric of her damp, cool shirt.

His hand felt almost _warm_.

* * *

When she woke up, it was early evening or maybe late afternoon.

She'd twisted to the other end of her bed, her feet on the pillow, sheets and blankets twisted around her, soaked in cold, flaky sweat, her thighs chafed, armpits wet. Her hair was everywhere, tangled and sticking up and stiff from dry sweat.

Faint sunlight cut through the curtains, across her eyelids, blinding her.

Downstairs, it was silent; she didn't hear Sara screaming or the crashing of dishes or the sounds of the outside world.

Slappy was gone, and the room felt painfully empty, cold even.

Absently, she wondered where he'd gone, but figured the quiet was nicer than a hissy fit from her entire family.

When she pulled herself upright, crumpled, her clothes crackled. The sheets tightened and she kicked her way out of them, stumbling out of the bed. Her legs buckled and she hit the ground; the fall jarred her teeth and made them click painfully.

A quick glance at the half-dead alarm clock told her it was close to five-thirty pm.

Maybe they were eating dinner, she thought, rubbing her aching elbow as she crawled to her feet. The room was almost dark, but a hint of light illuminated how empty her room was.

She hugged herself and picked at her tank top; it stank of sweat, musty and cold, chaffing her raw skin. Shaking her head, she decided to check things out downstairs, see why things were so quiet.

The stairs creaked and groaned under her weight as she descended, sending goosebumps all over the backs of her arms and shoulders.

A draft whipped at her, blowing back her hair, cooling the new sweat rolling down her face.

She wiped away the rivulets and peered down the stairs.

She could hear Sara twittering too low.

Frowning, Amy headed down the steps, praying she didn't step on the ones that squeaked, and the murmur, however faint, got louder and louder.

"She brought him back, Doc!" That was Mrs. Kramer, voice muffled with tears.

A soft shushing that was painfully familiar punctuated the end of her statement.

Amy held her breath and craned her head around the corner.

Dr. Palmer was standing in the middle of their foyer, his back to them. The tweed jacket he always wore had been swapped for a black turtleneck; his potbelly still protruded; and his hair was now completely bald. (Obviously, he'd lost what little hair he'd had three years ago.)

"I'm sure there's a logical explanation for this," Dr. Palmer cooed as Mr. Kramer stroked his wife's hair gently, rocking her as she sobbed hysterically.

Sara stood off a few feet away, arms crossed over her massive breasts, one hip cocked out as she spoke quickly and quietly to the doctor, who was old enough to be their father.

Amy's foot slipped and her heel hit the edge of the last stair. The thud made every head snap towards her.

As if summoned by the impending intervention, Slappy slid out of the shadows and his eyes glowed not unlike a dog's, eerily blue. His face was granite white, blank as a canvas. Pieces of auburn waves fell into his face.

"Ding dong," he sang in a whispering voice, completely flat, "the bitch is back."

"Amy, how nice to see you," Dr. Palmer said with a huge smile.

Sara fluttered her lashes at him and flicked her hair over her shoulder with long, French-tipped nails. Behind his arm, she peeled her lips back in a sneer.

There was a smudge of red lipstick across her teeth.

"How _not_ nice to see you," Amy told him in response.


	6. In Which Amy Kramer Hates Therapy

The Dummy's Finale

6

In Which Amy Kramer Hates Therapy

The police showed up not long after, and Dr. Palmer defused the situation, claiming that he'd buttdialed the police on his super-sensitive touch-screen phone.

Just the sight of the navy blue uniforms and the shiny, black gun holsters made Amy's skin crawl; hopefully, none of the cops got trigger-happy and shot her.

Slappy watched them with keen interest, his eyes sparkling as he watched them converse; Amy busily chipped the nail polish off her nails, watching it flake onto the nice carpet.

"Well," Dr. Palmer laughed nervously, "that was unexpected." He dabbed at the sheen of sweat lining his forehead with his handkerchief as he closed the door behind the officers.

His face was flushed, whether from the task of speaking to gun-toting men or closing the door, which was probably the most exercise he got since high school gym class she didn't know.

It was just funny to watch his belly jiggle and his jowls quiver as he hobbled about; it was like watching a Corgi run about.

Amy sat stiffly on the edge of the chair's cushion, twisting a little, worn stress ball in her hands over and over, avoiding looking at anyone. Unconsciously, she bounced her leg anxiously, causing the legs of her chair to squeak ever so slightly underneath her.

Once the squadron car was out of sight, Dr. Palmer visibly relaxed and he turned back to her.

Mrs. Kramer, Mr. Kramer, Sara, and Jed were all gathered around the kitchen table, drinking tea in these fancy little cups that Mrs. Kramer reserved for family gatherings, to make a good impression.

On the other end of the rectangular-shaped table sat Dr. Palmer, with her parents on one side and her siblings on the other.

 _This is an intervention,_ she thought, scowling down at the glass surface, a warped reflection of a black-haired girl staring back at her.

"Amy, your parents have asked me to come because it seems that your little friend has reared its head once more," Dr. Palmer explained, using a lull in his voice to palpitate her irritation as he lifted the tiny cup—it looked ridiculous in his meaty hands—and sipped delicately. He looked stupid, pretending to be dainty and polite.

"I'm _not_ crazy," she hissed, slamming her glass down harder than necessary, making the other glasses and the little saucers clatter noisily.

Mr. Kramer frowned seriously at her, so she sighed heavily and flopped backwards, glaring at the fat man from beneath her eyelashes.

Sara tutted quietly, discreetly disapproving of Amy's behavior towards the therapist.

Amy flared her nostrils, sighing heavily through them.

"I never said you were," Dr. Palmer soothed, setting his cup down calmly, "and I suggest you not refer to yourself as such. I don't believe you're mentally unstable, just a bit troubled. Now, what's been going on?" He sat back, folded his hands on his stomach, and smiled stiffly, his mustache wrinkling under his nose.

Amy rubbed her sweaty palms against the rough denim of her jeans and glanced up at the sickly yellow-white light overhead, flickering every few seconds. "You know, normal teenage angst, I'm in love with a vampire and werewolf, and I need to get laid," she sneered, her voice thick with contempt and sarcasm, as she crossed her arms over her chest defiantly, lifting her chin up.

Jed giggled, attempted to hide it behind some fake-ass coughing, and quickly took a huge gulp out of his cup.

Mrs. Kramer choked out a strangled noise as Mr. Kramer rubbed her shoulders comfortingly, pressing his lips to her temple.

"Don't be rude," Sara quipped, furrowing her brows at Amy as she took a long drink from her cup, while somehow still managing to be dainty and ladylike.

Amy ground her teeth against the flurry of profanities that wanted to spill out at her older sister, snatched the cup off the table, with none of the grace or integrity that Sara had (which made her tea spill all over her placemat) and drained it in a few harsh gulps. It was too hot and burned going down but she pushed it to the back of her mind; anything to keep her from swearing at Sara and probably getting grounded.

"Why don't you and I take a walk? Or perhaps you have a den we could use?" Dr. Palmer said, his voice smooth as honey, but there was something in his eyes that made Amy's skin crawl.

"No!" she blurted, all too sharply because his head whipped towards her, light gleaming off his bald head.

Sara, as usual, was quick to agree. "I hardly think it would be appropriate," she sniffed, scowling.

Relief flooded Amy, making her skin stop crawling.

Dr. Palmer frowned. "Alright," he relented, sighing heavily, "but I don't want any more interruptions, understand?"

"Roger that," Slappy said as he glided out of the shadows, like a living shadow himself, dressed impeccably in a black t-shirt that had once been Jed's and a pair of jeans.

Dr. Palmer blanched.

"I presume you're the simpleton who think I am only a figment of Kramer's imagination?" Amy felt a thrill run up her spine at the sound her name, albeit her last name but her name nonetheless, coming from Slappy's mouth.

"W-who's this, Mrs. and Mr. Kramer?" Dr. Palmer squeaked, his voice cracking somewhere between who's and Kramer.

Amy burst out laughing at the horrified expression on the fat, old man's face.

"Why, I'm a nightmare dressed as a daydream," Slappy laughed, baring his teeth in a manic grin; she almost felt bad for the poor therapist, who looked more than ready to shit his pants.

"He's Taylor Swift," Jed cackled from his side of the table and threw his head back to laugh hysterically, rolling his chair onto the back two legs. When he fell, the table jumped, and he laughed even harder.

Amy cringed slightly.

"Who are you?" Dr. Palmer demanded, irritation flickering across his fat face.

Slappy smiled, this time it was more dark and sinister, and pressed his white, marble finger into the older man's chest, where his heart was.

"The name's Slappy, and you'd better not forget it."


	7. In Which Amy Kramer Slaps Sara

The Dummy's Finale

7

In Which Amy Kramer Slaps Sara

Slappy dragged a chair in to sit beside Amy, and watched the debate between Dr. Palmer, her parents, and her sister with an elated expression, his teeth bared in a fierce snarl that mocked a smile. With every word, his eyes bounced between them, flitting from face to face, enraptured, capturing every little muscle tic.

"Why can't we just let things go?" Amy groaned, burying her face into her hands when Dr. Palmer decided to gang up on her about something or other.

Sara was on her in a flash, all teeth and shrill insults, her high voice making the insults grate even worse. "You never think about anyone else! It's always Amy, Amy, bloody sodding _Amy!_ " She was vibrating with rage, spittle flying from her lips in a mist, making Amy flinch away.

"How do you think I feel? Jed is the funny one, and you're the perfect one. Sweet, pretty, oh so damn talented Sara. Sara, with her stupid, oh so 'perfect' _masterpieces_ ," Amy sneered, rising to her feet violently; the chair teetered on its wobbly legs dangerously, precariously close to falling.

"'Oh, how could you? My masterpiece! I have to start all over; I'd just gotten the sky the right shade! Wah, the clouds don't look the exact shade of white that my mind's eye sees.' Good God, you whiny, perfectionist bitch! You never shut up for one second about yourself! Go suck a cactus!"

Sara reeled back, her face drawn in pain as though Amy's words were a physical slap, a vicious blow, and then there was the fierce whistle of breath being sucked in through her tight teeth, her eyes flashing as she snapped, "Good Christ! You're mad! Insane! Bloody crazy!" She grabbed at her hair, thick fistfuls clenched between her flexing fingers, and gnashed her teeth.

"You let someone who's tried to kill us _tons_ of times into the house? For what? So you can fall in love with him and hope he takes you away from your pathetic, boring life? Just because no guy here wants you doesn't mean you should let some psychopath in!" To emphasis her point, Sara slapped the table, rattling the delicate china.

Amy's face drained of color, her eyes growing glossy and wet with a sheen of tears. Her hands, which had been clenched around the edge of the table, whipped out like bullets and caught Sara in her well-developed chest, pushing her backwards, into the wall.

Mrs. Kramer gasped audibly, her hands flying up to her throat as Mr. Kramer shoved to his feet, his face bright red, a vein on his forehead pulsing. The red color deepened into blue, and then purple, and then back to red.

Dr. Palmer rushed between the sisters, wrapping his burly arms around Sara's breasts, wrenching her off her feet.

Sara looked torn between extreme pleasure and fury, her hands twisted into talons, arching towards Amy's face, aimed to claw down her face.

Amy threw herself backwards, hitting the sink, bracing herself against the counter as she hissed out long, low breaths that sounded like sobs. Tears ran down her cheeks in thick trails, one right over the other.

Unable to take anymore, Slappy got to his feet within a few seconds, but Amy was faster with her reaction.

She lurched across the few feet between her and Sara, and, almost too fast for Slappy to track, struck her older sister across her face, using the flat of her open palm to draw pink blush across one cheek.

To add to the humility, Amy spat a huge wad of saliva at Sara.

"Screw off, Sara. Sit here and berate me—" Amy's shoulders drew up, her jaw taut. "—all you want, Dr. Palmer will _never_ fuck a cow like you."

Jed let out a long, shrill giggle that sounded more at home in an insane asylum as Sara stumbled away.

"And this is where Amy and I take our leave," Slappy declared as he swooped in and wrapped a cool arm around her shoulders, steering her outside.

* * *

They got blizzards at Dairy Queen and ate them as they walked, Slappy slowly and cautiously as though he expected it to jump up and bite his face, and Amy viciously, using her teeth to bite through the cold ice cream.

"That was very bold of you," the dummy told her, licking a trickle of ice cream that dripped across his knuckles. "To slap her, I mean. I didn't think you had a mean bone in your body. You actually grew a set of balls since I last saw you." He gave her an appraising stare as she smashed her fist into the red button on a walk/don't walk sign.

"You still haven't grown any manners," she spat viciously, her lip curling over her teeth not unlike a snarling dog; there were smears of chocolate on her teeth that ruined the dangerous, bristled appearance.

"Yes, please, thank you." He smirked as she flushed red and ignored him.

Setting off a quick pace, they hurried across the crosswalk and cut across the park.

"She just makes me so _mad!_ They've always sided with her, always held her up on a fucking pedestal. So perfect, sweet, utterly and irrevocably amazing. She can do no wrong; she's always right! Kind, caring, selfless, and sweet. It makes me _sick_ ," she raged, her sticky teeth clicking with every over-pronounced consonant and drawn-out vowel.

"She thinks she's some sort of DaVinci, the way she goes on about her paintings. Good _god._ 'My masterpiece! Oh no.' And Mom and Dad think she's just shitting rainbows and puking glitter. You'd think she was Jesus walking on water, how they go on and on about her, about her so-called masterpieces, gushing and throwing every praise at her." She stuck her tongue out, pretending to puke as she crammed the last bit of her ice cream cone into her mouth.

"Sounds bad," Slappy said lightly, sucking a mouthful of warm ice cream into his mouth.

She threw him a disgusted look and flipped him off.


	8. In Which Amy Kramer Is Good Company

The Dummy's Finale

8

In Which Amy Kramer Is Good Company

Instead of going home, Amy led him to a park, where little humans ran around and threw gravel and sand, and told him to sit in the shade while she ran to the bathroom to wash her hands.

Scowling, Slappy watched her leave, her hair swinging behind her like a pendulum.

He still couldn't believe how much she'd grown; last time he saw her; she was a scrawny twelve-year-old with really frizzy hair and a penchant for baggy cargo jeans. Nothing like the athletic girl now, muscular with golden, toned arms and legs and the longest hair he'd ever seen on a human.

It always surprised him how much humans could grow and change; in the time it took Wally to find him and torment him, Amy grew up.

"What are you thinking about so hard?" Amy laughed as she came and sat next to him, her hair spilling around her face.

"Nothing, everything, anything."

He smiled when she shot him a dark, confused look. He could feel his hands begin to shake so he pushed them down into the long grass to hide it.

"Life, okay?" Sighing heavily, he rested his back against the brick wall behind them and lifted his face towards the sun.

They sat quietly for hours on end, her trying to whistle with a blade of grass and him, contemplating. He'd never given much thought to how he would die, but he wondered, absently, if he even __could__ _._ Wally had given him enough reason with torture alone.

"Do you..." Amy whispered beside him, her dark hair flapping wildly in the breeze that carried the scents of the humans around them. A woman was menstruating; another was wearing far too much perfume.

He turned his head to look at her, finding the fading light cast fantastic colors across her sweet features. "Do I what?" he asked.

She huffed, sucking in her lips. "Do you ever think about dying? I mean, I'm—I'm not as artistic as Sara; I'm not athletic with a full scholarship like Jed. The only thing I'm _good_ at is getting myself into trouble."

A melancholy longing colored her tone.

"Why? Are you going to kill yourself?" he found himself anxiously asking, grabbing her arm to catch her attention, and it worked; her head snapped to him, her green eyes wide.

"No! I was just...I get like that sometimes. Talk about... _it._ I'd never _actually_ do it," she muttered, chewing on the skin of her top lip.

He sat back. "I'm not..." he tried, his voice faint. A deep breath, and then he pushed his fingers into the grass hard, dirt under his nails. "I'm not sure I _can_ die," he admitted.

"What? You're, like, immortal?" she breathed, her eyes round and fascinated, an expression of awe on her face.

Reluctantly, he said, "I'm not entirely sure. I don't know much about my life before I woke up as a ventriloquist doll." Sucking his lips into his mouth, he turned away and watched the humans interact.

A couple picked up a crying little girl, the shorter man kissing her skinned knees and the other man rifling through a baby bag, chattering quickly to his partner. What looked like a single mother hugged a baby to her chest, rocking it gently as she kissed the downy, curly-haired head. Beside her, a robust older man swung an older girl onto his shoulders.

 _ _Stupid humans__ _,_ he thought darkly, grinding his teeth.

"We should head back before they call the cops," Amy said beside him.

Slappy rolled his eyes and stood as the sun sank slowly and the breeze picked up. The temperature dropped rapidly but he didn't feel any of it. He snarled as he noticed the low, thrumming presence of another demon, as well as the metallic, acidic stench, signifying its lower status.

And he had a _very_ good idea on who it was. Scowl deepening, he turned back to the girl and swallowed a curse.

Amy's shivering and rubbing of her arms told him, while he wasn't able to feel the temperature difference, she could. That wasn't what had him almost swearing; it was the pair of glowing red eyes that peered out of the deepest shadows of the corner of a park, just a few feet behind them.

The scent of decay wafted off the newcomer, making his bare his teeth; what was _he_ doing here? This was Slappy's territory, regardless of being gone for four years. A menacing growl bubble up, too low for human ears to register it, but it made the lesser demon snarl in response.

"Slappy?"

His head whipped back to her, shivering beside him, just inside the halo of light from a street lamp. The orange light bathed her like moonlight, and he was glad she wasn't able to see the demon in the shadows.

Without a word, he peeled off his sweatshirt and flung it over her head. "Humans are so feeble," he explained to her questioning stare as he shifted so he was behind her.

A quick, cursory glance around told him there weren't a lot of humans to witness anything out of the ordinary and he flicked two fingers up behind his back.

Amy turned, pausing just inside the entrance of the park. "What are you doing?" she asked as she pulled her hair out of the collar of the sweatshirt, several sizes too big on her, but at least she'd stopped shivering.

"Nothing. Keep walking," he reassured her lightly and closed his fist behind his back as he flared out his aura, forcing the lower demon into submission; the demon's beast howled and whined.

A choked noise rose up from the shadowed corner and he snorted derisively at the mere idea that the lower demon had thought to challenge him over Amy.

 _ _As__ _if_ _ _, boy__ _,_ he thought darkly, shooting the demon a glower, as he caught up to Amy. "Come on, slave."

"I'm _not_ your slave! My name is _Amy. A-m-y._ Say it with me!" she yelled as she bumped him on the shoulder.

The uneasy sensation of eyes followed him and Amy as they walked.


	9. In Which Amy Kramer Meet A Demon

The Dummy's Finale

09

In Which Amy Kramer Meets A Demon

The slow, meandering walk back to the Kramer house was quiet and at her side, Slappy was silent like a ghost; his steps made no sounds and the fabric of Jed's jeans, which gave him the appearance of a home-boy, didn't even so much as swish.

Despite how quiet he was, the dusk air was alive with sounds of cicadas, crickets, and frogs hidden the trees and grass. Children laughed and squealed; cars revved their engines; and dogs barked and howled to each other.

Amy's mind was still wandering.

They walked in silence, except for Slappy's occasional scoff and sneer; out of the park, down the streets and sidewalks the led to the street she lived on. They crossed at crosswalks and Slappy paused every once in a while, to peer into stores that he didn't seem to recognize.

It was as they crossed a street that ran from one end of a strip mall to the other that it happened.

"Slappy? Is that you?" a male voice yelled as a dark figure darted out in front of her from the open door of a brightly-lit ice cream shop, and she stumbled backwards, nearly falling on her back had Slappy not been behind her to catch her. His cold hands dug into her skin, smooth and waxy like polished wood.

She squinted into the shadows of the sidewalk, the bright light spilling around the boy in front of her, making him hard to see. All she could make out was curly, blond hair.

"Hey, how are you?" the figure asked, leaning down into her face. A slant of light cut across the figure's face, highlighting the lilac-blue eyes framed by long, pale eyelashes and bone-white skin.

"I'm sorry. Do I know you?" Slappy asked.

The figure stepped into the light; he was tall and reedy, wearing an oversized jacket and ripped jeans. "It's me, Ray. God, how long has it been since we spoke?" He was very pretty, with thin lips and cheekbones that would make a model jealous, and Amy felt herself flush in ugly blotches.

Slappy scowled the minute the boy said his name and pushed passed Amy. "So _you_ were what I felt," he sneered, jabbing a finger into the boy's chest.

Not exactly in the mood for a freak-show reunion, Amy started to walk passed them. _It's probably one of his little friends or something,_ she thought dimly as icy fingers dug into her elbow, stopping her stride mid-step.

"Please," the boy called Ray breathed, "don't go. I have to apologize about him. His parents never taught him any manners." He smiled and she struck by how handsome he looked, the light from the store haloing around his head, making him look like an angel.

"Stop that!" Slappy yelled, hitting Ray hard enough to knock him off balance.

Amy stepped back as the boy caught his footing and turned to Slappy with a kicked-puppy expression. "What was that for?" he asked, pouting as he crossed his arms in a manner not unlike a sulking child.

"For being stupid," the dummy-turned-semi-human responded flatly.

"Who's this? Another slave?" Ray's hand shot out and grabbed her sleeve to pull her closer.

" _No_. Let go of me," Amy demanded as she touched his hand—only to pull back, her fingers stinging like she'd stuck them against dry ice. He was freezing like a humanoid ice cube. It was a wonder he didn't start dripping condensation.

Now that she looked more closely, there was something off about him. The smell that wafted off him, however faint, was that of a mix of damp cavern and wet dirt, just before it turns into mud. And now while she was at it, his skin had a waxy sheen to it and, underneath the semi-translucent expanse of his skin, the veins were barely noticeable. His chest never rose and fell with breath, too.

Realizing his hand was still wrapped around her sleeve, she tugged hard and stumbled back when his fingers unexpected opened. She caught herself before she went tumbling backwards into the empty street.

Ray lifted a hand out of his jacket pocket and placed it on Slappy's chin. "So you are masquerading as human? What an interesting development in your powers. Only took you what? A decade or so to figure it out?" He turned the dummy's face this way and that and dropped the auburn-haired man's chin before Slappy could hit him.

"You really should get back home," Slappy told Ray with a dangerous smile. His eyes seemed to glow in the light, but that was probably just Amy's imagination.

"Don't think you can threaten me and not have some sort of payback," the blond said pleasantly, jerking his head to where Amy stood, trying to rub the feeling back into her arm.

"Hey, don't bring me into this! I'm an innocent," she pointed out, glaring at the two of them. It seemed like they didn't even hear her as they squared off, eye to eye.

Ray's eyes seemed to shift from Slappy to Amy, but the girl wasn't sure. He was half-crouched, his eyes narrowed and his teeth bared in a sneer that looked more like snarl from her viewpoint. Every hair on her body stood at attention.

"And here I thought we were friends," he said abruptly, his almost scary demeanor dropping in an instant.

"Slave, we're leaving," Slappy said, backing up without ever breaking eye contact with the blond.

"I said I'm _not_ your sl—" Amy started to rant, stalking towards him, only to be grabbed by the wrist.

"Now isn't the time," he hissed squeezing her wrist.

She flinched. "What is with you guys grabbing me? Stop it. Let me go," she spat, ripping her arm away and started down the street in the opposite direction that Ray was facing.

A cold breeze hit her back, and despite wearing Slappy's sweatshirt, she shivered as the chill slid bone-deep.

A low, rumbling laugh echoed behind them and when she turned, Ray wasn't anywhere to be found.

Slappy was right on her tail, though, and he seemed to have relaxed.

"Okay, who the fuck was that guy?" she asked him.

He didn't respond for a minute, so she shrugged off his silence, and then he said, quietly, "Ray Thurston, and he is certainly _not_ a friend of mine."


	10. In Which Amy Kramer Slaps Slappy

The Dummy's Finale

10

In Which Amy Kramer Slaps Slappy

When they got home, the first thing Slappy did was check all the windows, doors, closets and the attic.

Amy thought it was weird and Sara even said as much when he marched passed her room.

He couldn't really care if Ray got the rest of them but he'd be damned if that moron laid a hand on _his_ Amy.

"Slappy," Amy said when they nearly collided with each other, a skeptical look on her face, "what are you doing?" She shot him a curious glance, peering around him to look into the bathroom he'd just come from.

"None of your business," he answered, partly because she couldn't do anything since she was a human and partly to piss her off.

Scowling, she pressed onward. Her green eyes, a bit bloodshot, narrowed at him. "Seriously, what are you _doing_?" she demanded, glaring flatly at him as she stepped around him and headed into the bathroom.

He waited for a beat before saying, "Nothing that concerns you, slave."

She gave him the response he loved. Wheeling around, her face turned red all the way to her hairline and she was all tense. "I'm not a slave! Good Lord, you're so obnoxious! I'm not twelve anymore," she growled.

The words came to him suddenly and he didn't stop them. "Your chest sure does say you are," he sneered.

Her face flushed darker, like red velvet. "You're such a dick!" she yelled before she stormed away, slamming the door once she reached her room.

A door opened, pale yellow with Sara written in big, loopy handwriting, and Sara poked her head out. Her long, dark hair was pulled away from her face and she looked like she was fifteen again. "Don't use such foul language, Amy! And don't slam doors!" she called and when her eyes caught on Slappy, he was amused to see all color drain from her face.

Without so much as a squeak of terror, her head drew back and she slammed her door.

"What's all the slamming about?" Jed asked, annoyance in his voice as he stumbled out of his room, running his hands through his hair.

"Your sisters are having a match," Slappy laughed, rubbing his hands together as he heard Amy scream at Sara through the thin wall separating their rooms.

"You're a stupid cow!" she howled.

"You're selfish!" Sara shrieked back.

Jed shot Slappy a lopsided, goofy grin as he pushed past him, down the steps without another word.

Amy came down several hours later, wearing a sweater two sizes too big and a pair of sweats. Her damp hair is coiled on top her head, pieces curling around her face.

"Have fun fighting?" Slappy crooned, peering up at her from where she was fixing herself a mug of something.

"Not in the mood," she snapped, shooting him a dark glare over her shoulder without pausing in stirring the contents of her mug.

He shrugged absently and reclined back into his chair, watching her as she hustled about in the massive kitchen. It was as she leaned against the counter that he noticed it, that sour, decaying stench that he knew all too well.

Without a moment's hesitation, he climbed to his feet and stepped into the kitchen. "Amy," he said quietly, knowing she'd be more likely to respond to the use of her name,"have you seen that blond boy? Ray?"

She turned to face him, glaring. "Why does it matter to you? Oh, don't tell me you're jealous," she snickered.

"No, slave, I'm _not_ jealous!" he answered, barely keeping the bite out of his tone as he stepped closer. He dew several lungfuls of air.

Annoyance gave way to anxiety as she bent backwards away from him, throwing her hands up. "Okay, dude, you're freaking me out. Stop smelling me! I'm not a damn bottle of perfume," she muttered, stepping sideways to get to the microwave as the count dwindled to single-digits.

Slappy ignored her request and placed a single hand on her arm, making her stop.

"What is it with you weirdos and grabbing me?" she demanded, attempting to tear her arm out of his grasp as the microwave beeped metallically.

The scent was faint, probably no direct contact, but the animalistic growl that tried to escape him didn't seem to care.

"Stay away from him, Amy," Slappy ordered.

Amy finally tore her arm free, squinting at the skin as if to see if he broke the skin with his grip, and then glared at him.

"You're in _my_ house, _I_ saved you. You should consider yourself pretty lucky that I hadn't left you with two boys; I could have, you know, but I didn't. I'm not twelve anymore and you don't scare me. So stop trying to run my life," she snarled, shoving past him to grab her drink from the microwave.

"Amy—" he hissed, reaching for her again.

She spun around and the mug went flying at him, smacking him smack-dab in the face. Steaming liquid dripped down the front of his shirt off his chin, soaking the fabric within seconds.

He blinked in surprise, wiping the piping-hot tea out of his eyes as Jed laughed uproariously from his spot on the couch, where he'd been playing some Youtube videos.

"Stay the hell out of my life, Slappy," Amy said as she stormed past him, glowering. She purposefully bumped into him on her way out, knocking him backwards into the edge of the counter.

"Dude, you got pawned!" Jed cackled.

Slappy glared at Amy's back as she left.

 _It's your own fault that you grabbed Ray's attention, Amy, and I'm not sure I can keep him from you._


	11. In Which Amy Kramer Dreams

The Dummy's Finale

11

In Which Amy Kramer Dreams

Partly because she was pissed at Slappy and partly because she didn't _want_ to talk to any of her family members, she avoided them and stayed holed up in her room, fuming silently.

Her fingers stilled ached with the amount of force she'd hit Slappy with; she could hardly believe she'd _slapped_ him. Sure, she'd gone after her sister, but Sara had been _asking_ for it. Him? Not so much. That didn't mean she felt sorry for the asshole.

 _He's totally jealous that that guy's paying attention to me. I mean, I bet he thinks I've never been flirted with by anyone and couldn't possibly find someone,_ she thought with a scowl, clenching her stinging hand into a fist. _I bet no girl has ever even_ tried _to flirt with him; he's such an ass._

Grunting in anger, she kicked off her sneakers and flopped down across her bed diagonally, nearly hitting her head on the wall. _Well,_ she told herself, _he can go kiss a cactus._ Sighing heavily now, tired from the fighting and the "intervention" and meeting Ray Thurston, she unbuttoned her jeans, yanked them down her legs, and then crawled under the covers.

It was barely nine-thirty, but she was tired and could hardly keep her eyes open; the soft fabric of the pillow case crackled in her ear as she laid down, ignoring the way her hair hung over her nose and got stuck in the collar of her t-shirt.

 _Just a little nap,_ she thought to herself, pressing her face deeper into her pillow. The low ticking of the clock dragged by slowly, and she exhaled with every other tick, allowing the familiar sound to drag her under.

It was dark inside her room, the flickering light of the hallway lamp casting long, eerie shadows across her floor, when she woke up. Amy sat up slowly, glancing at the clock, which was perched precariously on the wall.

As she kicked off the blankets and her feet touched the dusty ground, she heard a voice.

"Amy?"

She turned her head to the open door, watching a long, wiry figure step around the corner. It wasn't Jed's head of red curls that she saw, but tight-knit blond ones, sleek against his skull. Robin-egg blue eyes in place of her brother's green ones.

"Ray? What—" she tried, licking her lips to push the sound through them, tasting the vowels and the shape of the letters as she spoke them.

Ray smiled, his teeth bone-white against his already alabaster face, and she felt the blood slither out of her face in one sweeping rush. An icy trickle of fear slid up her back like a bony finger, digging deep. Her stomach dropped exponentially.

"Where's my family?" she asked, glaring at him.

He cocked his head, as though he wasn't sure what to make of her question. Blinking eyes with pinpoint pupils, he shifted.

Fear churned slowly into anger and panic. "Where's my _family_ , Ray?" she spat, letting her unease color her tone.

With a dismissive flap of his hand, he stepped closer. His pale eyes seemed to shift colors, slowly turning purple, and then deeper, darker, _red._

Her breath caught in her throat with a little click and her hands began to shake uncontrollably, the blood in her fingertips pounding in tandem with her rapid, hummingbird pulse. Acid turned in her stomach, threatening vomit, but she pushed it aside feverishly, allowing the boy before her to steal all her focus.

His liquid slink was smooth and effortless, the hard lines and gaunt planes of his face betraying no hint of softening emotion. Shadows played with the beauty of his features like the flashing of a red light in a horror movie.

And just like a horror movie, Amy was immobile. Chains might as well have shot around her and bound her. Her heartbeat was pounding in her ears, drowning out the bullet-loud swish of his clothes as he stalked closer and the low, repetitive drone of the ticking clock. Sweat streamed down her back, making her want to shift, but she found herself unable to move.

Licking her dry, cracked lips, she glanced around, a little startled that her head could so freely move. Midnight-blue sky with the imposing black splotches of trees that swayed in a breeze, rustling the leaves, told her it was late, or either very early; she wasn't quite sure.

That was when she noticed it.

Normally, she'd hear dogs baying mournfully, cats yowling occasionally, and, most of all, the sound of the wind rustling through the leaves. It was silent now, except for the whisper of fabric, gunshot-loud in the aching void of noise, and the sound of her own ragged breathing. _Her_ breathing, she noticed slowly, her eyes widening as she saw him closer than before, but not _him._

Her stomach plummeted so fast it made her gasp in shock and the sound seemed to snap the chains binding her. As if in response to her sudden movement, the room was alive with a million sounds, dogs snarling and cats hissing and the long, loud scream of someone's horn.

Ray's red eyes watched her, following every movement carefully; though his face gave away nothing, she had an inkling he was categorizing her every twitch and shift.

Without breaking eye contact, he crooned, his voice low and seductive, enticing the deepest parts of her, soothing her in a manner no one had ever touched her in, " _Amy._ "

She found herself walking up to him and he unfolded himself from the crouch, moving so fast it seemed as though he had never been in the crouch at all.

Cool, blue shadows draped across the thin set of his lips. "Amy," he murmured, his eyes locked with hers as he placed an icy hand on her waist, freezing through the holey t-shirt she'd worn to bed, his other hand cradling her jaw tenderly. His red eyes captivated her.

"Amanda," he whispered in a voice that throbbed with emotion.

With a wild gasp that bubble from her lips, Amy tore herself away frantically, stumbling backwards onto her bed and smacking her head hard enough to hear the crack of the bone connecting with the dry wall.

"No!" came the guttural, bone-chilling bellow, deep and throaty and positively not human, as Ray lunged at her, his eyes wet with tears and wide with disbelief.

Her eyes snapped open as the door to her room slammed open with a loud bang and she bolted upright, disorientated but hoping she could reach her softball gear before Ray finished what he'd started. As soon as she'd yanked back the covers and coiled her muscles, ready to spring, a cold hand clamped down on her shoulder, making her stagger under the undeniable strength.

"I swear to God, if you don't let me go, I'll kick your ass! You _don't_ wanna mess with—" Her rant died on her dry, trembling lips as she saw the auburn hair and glowing eyes, his lips pulled back in a snarl.

"Where is he?" he asked quietly, his voice dark and tight with barely-contained rage.

"Who?" Amy asked, settling back onto her heels. Long pieces of hair stuck to her sweaty race as she swept his hand off her shoulder, only to find his fingers curled around hers, tight enough to hurt.

"Ray, Amy! Jesus, he was in your _room._ I can _smell_ his low-ass energy!"


	12. In Which Amy Kramer Is Enlightened

The Dummy's Finale

12

In Which Amy Kramer Is Enlightened

Amy's wide, green eyes stared at him as though he was crazy as she pulled her t-shirt down over her thighs.

He scanned the room, searching the black corners.

"What are you talking about?" she asked, her voice low and thin, reedy. The thick stench of fear and anger wafted off her like waves.

"Amy, he was _here._ In your room," Slappy snarled, grabbing her shoulder again.

Her dark brows drew together again. Confusion melded over her anger. "What do you _mean_?" she demanded, ignoring where his fingers were digging into her shoulder.

"What do you _think_ I mean?" he growled flatly. The animal he'd buried deep under the human facade rushed tot he surface, snarling and spitting, enraged at the idea that the pup would dare encroach in his territory so boldly.

Amy's face darkened with anger. "He wasn't here, you moron," she snapped, although the wavering in her voice spoke volumes that her jutting jaw and tightly-crossed arms didn't.

"Are you that stupid? Do you think that boy is _human_? He's not! He's from Horrorland, just like the rest of us," Slappy argued, keeping his eyes on the window for fear she'd see the incandescent red creeping into the blue of his eyes, not that he cared but he'd rather her not find out about his true form.

Amy stared uncomprehendingly back at him. "Are you _jealous_?" she sneered suddenly.

His rage spiked, and he could feel his wooden body creak and shift as he fought to keep his form together. "I'm not. He's messing with things outside of his knowledge." He scowled darkly.

She stared at him a little longer before she threw her head back and laughed uproariously. "You _are_ jealous."

Grinding his teeth until it hurt, he tried hard to control the urge to make her scared. No matter how angry he was, he never wanted anyone to see his true form, but she was testing him. "Enough!" Even his voice was distorting, gravelly and warbled.

"You think because you can't have me, no one can? That's really unsettling. Like serial killer boyfriend." She placed a hand over her mouth while she laughed again.

He'd be damned if some little girl got the better of him. "You know I'm not human. There are things that go bump in the night, far worse than me. Scarier, worse things."

"The boogeyman?" she wheezed out between peals of laughter.

The anger rushed beneath his skin and he snarled to himself, swallowing the sound. His nostrils flared. "Yes, and much worse. Werewolves, vampires, genies, dragons, kitsunes. Things _I_ don't know about, and you wouldn't _want to_."

Her laughter died away, replaced by a tense look. A lock of sweat-sodden hair fell across her shoulder, tickling his knuckles. "What is he? I was dreaming and—"

"Dreaming about _what?"_ he pressed, his anger dissipating.

Her nostrils flared with anger as she shoved him hard, making him stumble. "Watch it, jerk. I'm human, in case you forgot. But..." Her voice lost its angry tone. "...I woke up, and he was there, calling my name, and then he appeared. He wouldn't tell me where my family was, and then..."

Her cheeks darkened.

"A trace. Did he put you in a trance? You felt compelled to do whatever he asked," Slappy said gently.

Mute, she nodded. "Yes. And then he called me...Amanda. Do you know who she is?" Hazy green eyes met eyes.

Any breath in his lungs rushed out at the name. "He said Amanda?" he repeated quietly, closing his eyes against the brewing headache that was suddenly pounding and prickling behind his eyes.

He debated on telling her but decided to do it; if Ray was using Amy to do what Slappy thought he was trying to do, she had to know what she was up against. Besides, there was no law against telling an uninformed human. "Amanda was...a girl he knew. In a place called Dark Falls, although that's not where he's originally from. He crawled from some dark abode in a place we call Horrorland for the creatures, Horrors, that live there."

"Horrorland?" she repeated, hesitating a bit before saying the word entirely. "Is it like an amusement park for you guys?"

"No. Everyone of us was created there. Some are turned, some are born and raised there," Slappy explained, unsure of what else to say.

Amy ran a hand through her hair. Drew a breath slowly. "And what about you?" she asked.

He turned his hands around to look at the long lines etched deep into his skin. "I don't know. I have little memory of what my life like before...I became a doll."

"And what about Ray?" She peeked at him curiously, but her face was white with dread.

"He's an incubus, Amy. He...feeds off the sexual dreams of those who targets."

She swallowed and met his stare. "What about Amanda?" There was an inkling of fear in her eyes.

"I believe she and her brother were the only ones who have ever escaped him. He's been trying to hunt them down ever since." He set his hands on his hips, thought better, and then crossed them.

"Why me?" she asked in a low, quaking voice.

He looked up to find her wide eyes wet and glassy. Her chest shook with every stiff breath she took.

"It could be me; it could be you. All I know is now that he has you in sights, well, he won't let you go. He's been going after Amanda for several years and hasn't let up at all," Slappy said.

"It could be you? Why you? You're just a dummy. _Literally_."

He considered telling her. That he wasn't just a dummy. That he was almost as strong as his creator. That he'd been alive for years, millenniums even.

Instead, he simply nodded along and said, "Just call me Woody the Cowboy."


End file.
